


The Wolf at the Door

by lusilly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Plot, Bisexual Remus Lupin, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Cursed Scar, Guilt, M/M, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Past Relationship(s), Pining, Regulus Black Lives, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 19:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4678763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lusilly/pseuds/lusilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For two years he has let this continue with Regulus, he has ignored the low haze of guilt which surrounds him like miasma, but it is no longer possible to bear. Regulus is in love with him, and this terrifies him, because Remus does not know if he loves Regulus, or if he loves the specter of Regulus’s brother always there, always present, always just slightly out of reach."</p><p>Regulus Lives AU wherein Regulus and Remus grow very close after Sirius's arrest, but there is always a quiet distance between them which they don't talk about. It is not until the Order of the Phoenix is re-formed, and regroups at Grimmauld Place, that they see each other again for the first time in years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf at the Door

**Author's Note:**

> So I made [ this post ](http://brothersblack.tumblr.com/post/127657677011/brothersblack-id-like-to-write-a-regulus-lives) on Tumblr, which naturally led me to flip almost the entire plot of the HP series on its head in order to justify writing some nice vintage rarepair slash. 
> 
> There is some Real Plot buried here somewhere, and if I have the urge I might write more to dig it up.

            It starts the night everything else ends, and it starts with betrayal. As if it isn’t enough that James and Lily are dead, as if it isn’t enough that the world doesn’t even have the decency to stop turning and mourn for two of his greatest friends; wizarding folk celebrate in the streets, and he sits at home with his fingers and lips going numb, knowing that the Potters’ Secret-Keeper has betrayed them, knowing that Sirius, whom he has known so well, whom he has loved so deeply, is a liar.

            He cannot stay inside and whimper; some part of him wants to go to Godric’s Hollow, knows that someone must handle the bodies and arrange the funerals, and Remus has always had the temperament for that business anyhow. It strikes him suddenly that James and Lily’s baby is alive. He must go to Dumbledore; he may not be godfather, but he is willing to raise a child, no matter how poorly he lives… Even as he thinks it, he knows it cannot be true. Remus could not raise a child: children need to be cared for every day and night of the lunar month, and children should not be around creatures like him… Perhaps Dumbledore is right, perhaps Harry is safer with his Muggle relatives. He only wishes he had ever met Petunia; Lily spoke of her occasionally, with a faraway kind of wistfulness that Remus never completely understood.

            He must do _something_ , so he leaves his flat. It is a good week for him, mid-month between full moons, and usually this is enough to make him happy enough. But he is not happy; nor, really, is he sad. He feels the absence of emotion, a great cavernous emptiness in his chest, numb as if there is ice spreading through his limbs. Sirius, Sirius… what have you done…

            At the Leaky Cauldron, he is greeted with a roar of celebration. People scream and laugh and shout toasts into the night – _To the Boy Who Lived!_

            Remus supposes that is who Harry will be, for the rest of his life: the Boy Who Lived. And what of his parents? he thinks, with a surge of trembling fury. What about James and Lily? They died for their son. Is it not nobler, more honorable, to die for a cause than to survive?

            He smothers the thought. His grief for his friends will not cloud his relief for their son.

            Soberly, he sees that some are actually crying with relief, tears flowing freely down their cheeks. He does not cry. Tom the barman shouts that everyone drinks free tonight. The first face that recognizes Remus and Remus recognizes back is that of Mary MacDonald – Lily’s friend at Hogwarts. Extracting herself from the crowd, she comes up to Remus as if in slow motion. Her expression is sad and kind, but she cannot hide the riotous celebration behind her eyes.

            “Remus,” she says name loudly, to be heard over the din, “I’m so sorry – James and Lily, I can’t believe it, but you must – think of it like this, Remus, they’re the last who will ever die by You-Know-Who’s hand. He is gone. Haven’t you heard? Their son – their little baby son, he vanquished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-”

            Remus has a strange and uncharacteristic urge to slap her. He wants to snap, “Of course Voldemort isn’t dead. Of course he’s not gone forever. You people are fooling yourselves,” but even he isn’t sure if he believes that. It has been too many years of fear and fighting for him to believe it so easily. Dozens of Remus’s friends and schoolmates have died in the war against Voldemort. What makes a baby so special?’

            This is when someone else nearly falls into the bar, and a man shuffles through the crowd and goes straight to Remus, whose robes he grabs desperately, and it takes Remus a moment to realize the other man is shaking. His eyes trace the shiny burn scar along the man’s jaw and down his neck, onto which it almost looks as if tiny letters and words are branded and scarred in a language long-forgotten.

            His name is Regulus Black, and this is the first time he has been seen publicly in two years, since he betrayed Voldemort and joined the Order of the Phoenix. He has been hunted by the Death Eaters so savagely that Remus is surprised to see him alive at all, really, even after all that’s happened. He has always sort of reasoned that Regulus would end up gone from his bed one night, spirited away under cover of darkness, and it would be up to him, Remus, to comfort Sirius. _He was a Death Eater_ , he had imagined telling his friend. _It was all over for him the moment Voldemort branded the Mark on his arm._

            But now, here is Regulus, alive but deathly pale.

            Remus takes his arms, helps him to his feet.

            “Regulus,” he says, glancing around. “You shouldn’t be out here – he may be gone, but his followers are going to be very angry, I expect you’re in more danger than ever-”

            “ _Sirius_ ,” wheezes Regulus, through deep, irregular breaths.

            Remus’s heart sinks. “I know,” he says, but the words feel empty in his mouth. “I know. I would never have – and especially after what you… I’m sorry… I thought he was our friend…”

            He shakes his head, lips pressed together in a tight line.

            Gaining just enough control to hold himself upright, Regulus looks up at Remus. Remus does not know the man well outside of his proximity to Sirius: in school, they were not friends but they had curiously failed to be enemies. When Sirius got word that his brother joined the Death Eaters, he had thrown a fit unlike Remus had ever seen, and Remus had been forced to physically restrain him from running off to find his brother and – kill him? That’s what Sirius had said, but Remus had always assumed this was only his great power of exaggeration. Remus had always skirted around the thought that Sirius was truly capable of murder, even when they were sixteen and Sirius had almost used Remus’s affliction as a weapon unto itself. James had come to the rescue then – brave, heroic James, the only true Gryffindor among them for certain…

            And then there was the day that Regulus came back with a house-elf, a broken locket, and that terrible burn. It took a week to halt the flesh from sizzling and crackling as Regulus bore the pain with sweat on his brow and his brother’s hand in his. It had taken another month to find an enchantment which would seal the wound. It was a magical, cursed scar, one that would never fade. Then, Remus had for the first time found himself somehow grateful for the simplicity of his own scars, those which healed on their own, with time and care.

            Twice in his life had Remus seen Sirius cry. Once they were tears of anger as he threw a letter from his parents into the Gryffindor common room fire, scowling. The second time had been after Regulus’s return: they had been tears of joy.

            And it is at that moment, with Regulus standing before him – Regulus, who represented so much to Sirius, hope and love and family in a way that Remus could not provide – that Remus decides, No. Not Sirius. It cannot be true. He will find the answer, he will discover the true spy even if it takes him years, even if it is his word against the entire wizarding world.

            Remus slowly takes Regulus’s wrists, gently pries them from his robes. He is not prepared to perform the rites of grief and shock tonight, to go through the motions with the brother who barely knew Sirius.

            It is then that Regulus shocks him by placing his hands on Remus’s shoulders, leaning in with wide, tear-filled eyes, and whispers, “It wasn’t him. Sirius. He’s innocent… Remus… he’s got to be…”

            In retrospect, Remus should have known, things that begin in endings never last.

\----

            Grimmauld Place was not a friendly place on the best of days, but it had once been noble and magnificent, if a bit too sterile. In the days since then – it had been ten years since the last time Regulus visited the house, upon the death of their mother – it had been veritably left to rot. So stamped with the ancient magic of the Blacks as it was, the place was impossible to sell or let, and not even Kreacher had stayed to keep it tidy in the years since Regulus moved away. No one but his mother’s mad portrait barking orders into emptiness had been there for a decade.

            Still, Regulus wished they had maybe waited a week or so before they brought Harry, so that the house looked just a wee bit less of a mess.

            It was not the first time Regulus had met Harry Potter. Once, Lily Potter had introduced him to her tiny baby. James, who never quite trusted Regulus, did not approve; but Lily had a gentle, forgiving nature, and she admired his courage.

            “Wasn’t quite courage,” he’d told her sheepishly. “Self-preservation, you know – a very Slytherin thing to do, actually-”

            This did not matter to her. Here was a small child, vulnerable and beautiful in the midst of so much fear, and he held the child in wonder. “Does this make him my god-nephew?” Regulus had asked, in pretend seriousness. “Is that how it works?”

            A grown-up Harry he had seen in _Daily Prophet_ articles, but never in person. Regulus worked for the Department of International Wizarding Law, and it would have been well within reason for him to have visited Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament last year, but he had refrained. The Dark Mark burned ever clearer on his skin, and he feared facing Igor Karkaroff; he feared facing his old school friend, Severus Snape; and he feared getting close to Harry at all, knowing that something dark and dangerous was on its way, determined to keep it as far away from Lily and James’s son as possible.

            This had proved fruitless. But in any case, Regulus thought fairly, there was nothing he could’ve done even if he had been there for the boy.

            They were just ending a meeting; Snape gave Regulus a tight little nod, as he always did, and Sirius sneered at him as he left. Most of the members slipped into the hallway, murmuring their final thoughts to one another, then bewitching the door behind those who left, keeping it shut. Tonks got up to help. “Oh, Dora, don’t,” said Regulus, but she just grinned and ignored him. To Sirius, Regulus sighed, “She can’t go ten feet without making a racket.”

            Sure enough, there was a loud clatter as Tonks reliably knocked something over, then the familiar screaming of a woman gone mad in her portrait. Immediately Sirius followed her out the door down the hallway; Regulus took his time, got to his feet, and then stood hovering by the entrance towards the kitchen cellar. Walburga Black’s earsplitting cries rang out through the entire house, and Regulus was struck with an odd sense of nostalgia as Sirius roared back at her. It was not exactly a pleasant feeling, but it was one of simpler times, when allegiances ran in bloodlines, when choices were made for you.

            “But what’s a portrait of your mother doing here?” asked Harry, bewildered.

            Sirius led him down the hallway and answered, “Hasn’t anyone told you? This was my parents’ house, it’s been mine since they died. I offered it to Dumbledore for headquarters, about the only useful thing I’ve been able to do.”

            At this, Regulus’s eyebrows shot up; behind Harry, Regulus thought he saw Remus give him a funny half-glance of sorts. Clearing his throat, Regulus stepped forward, blocking his brother’s way.

            “ _You_ offered it?” Regulus repeated. “Please, Sirius, you were written out of the will, remember?”

            Despite this bitter reminder, a small smile graced Sirius’s face as he turned back to Harry, who looked between the two men with a confused sort of expression on his face. It was of course obvious that they were brothers; they both had that characteristic Black charm, an arrogant, effortless kind of handsomeness that had made them so popular at school. Regulus had always been shorter and slimmer than his brother, although Sirius’s time in Azkaban had, for a brief period of time, made him look more like Regulus’s mad, starving twin. Although Sirius’s body had yet to fully recover from Azkaban, he had kept his long hair, for which Regulus had found himself slightly grateful. Had he cut his hair short once more, they might look far too similar for either of their tastes.

            And yes, Regulus was not too proud to admit that he lacked some indefinable sense of raw devilish magnetism that his brother carried without even noticing. At Hogwarts, this might have been a sore spot between them; in adulthood, Regulus had less trouble coming to terms with it, especially when a wild hollowness still lingered in his brother’s eyes.

            “Harry,” said Sirius. “This is my younger brother, Regulus.” Why he always had to mention _younger_ , Regulus did not know – it was barely three years’ difference, anyhow. “I suppose technically one could say that this is his house, although I am the eldest son and he currently has his own home to himself in the city, which he is constantly assuring me is both larger and more comfortable than this place.”

            To Sirius, Harry said, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

            Regulus chuckled. “That’s because I keep a very low profile,” he told Harry. “I work at the Ministry, see, and having a wanted criminal for a brother isn’t all that beneficial to one’s career. I do my best to keep it quiet.”

            Harry’s eyes flickered to the shiny burn scar that started just below Regulus’s left earlobe and billowed downwards, catching the edge of his jaw and a great patch of skin on his neck before disappearing under his robes. Tiny letters of some foreign alphabet seemed scratched on the glassy skin, but Harry’s gaze did not linger too long. Surely he had suffered too many unwanted gazes on his own scar to do the same to Regulus.

            At dinner, Sirius talked to Harry for some time, apparently feeling free to finally air his displeasure at being stuck in the house once more. Harry could not know the weight of such sentiments, nor how heavily they sagged against Sirius’s fragile ego – nor, even how fragile Sirius still was. Regulus, on Sirius’s other side, was struck with another bolt of nostalgia: how easy it was to see a teenager in his brother’s expression, in his longing for freedom, his detestation of this house, and the wicked grin he got on his face when Harry agreed with him…

            “…of course, Regulus here doesn’t like Mundungus much either,” Sirius was saying, leaning back in his seat to clap his brother on the shoulder. “But that’s different, he’d broken loads of international wizarding laws, hasn’t he, Regulus?”

            “Trading laws, yes,” answered Regulus, happy to have something to distract him from the past. “But that’s not exactly my department, Sirius.”

            “What do you do at the Ministry?” asked Harry.

            “Bit of this and that,” Regulus answered. “Legislation, mostly. If I’m honest with you I spend a lot of my time trying to undo the damage done by our own family, and families like ours.”

            “What does that mean?” asked Harry.

            “The Blacks are a very old wizarding family,” answered Regulus, before his brother could open his mouth, eager to condemn his house. “And we were very proud of maintaining our pure bloodline. As such, we’ve had many politicians in the family, and much of our gold has exchanged hands in return for certain political favors.”

            “Political favors?” echoed Harry, glancing in confusion to his godfather. “Like what?”

            “Like, for example,” said Sirius. “When dear old Aunt Elladora tried to push through a bill to legalize Muggle-hunting.”

            “It was technically law for about three days,” noted Regulus. “But fortunately there were no casualties.”

            “Fortunately,” repeated Sirius sarcastically.

            Harry was silent for a moment. Regulus saw his gaze flicker once more to the scar on Regulus’s jaw.

            Deciding that they may as well address it, Regulus pointed to Harry’s forehead and said, “Sirius tells me your scar is a bit like a Sneakoscope for the Dark Lord. Rather useful, isn’t it?” He tapped his own scar. “All mine ever does is burn a bit when there’s dark magic in the air. It’s a cursed scar, like yours,” he explained. At Harry’s widened eyes, Regulus grinned and asked his brother, “Now, Sirius, you didn’t let him go thinking he was the only one, did you?”

            “It’s hardly the same,” said Sirius haughtily, as if mortally offended at the idea of deliberately keeping something from Harry. “You didn’t get yours from a Killing Curse, did you Regulus?”

            “How did you get it?” asked Harry, then he added hurriedly, “If you don’t mind me asking…”

            “Not at all,” answered Regulus, waving his hand. “Cursed scars aren’t common, but they can be found on people who have been touched by terrible magic. Magic which usually kills. This,” he tapped his jaw again, “is from Fiendfyre.”

            “Fiendfyre?”

            “Powerful dark magic, very, very easy to lose control of,” said Regulus. “And I was near madness when I conjured it – wouldn’t have gotten out at all if it weren’t for Kreacher.”

            “You conjured – dark magic?” asked Harry.

            At this, Sirius looked over at his brother. Uneasily, Regulus’s glance slid between Harry and him.

            Then Regulus held up his left arm and pulled back the sleeve: the ugly burn marks continued down to just past his inner elbow, beyond which it was still possible to make out the shape of a skeletal mouth, out of which a serpent slithered. Half of the Dark Mark was obscured by burns. Harry’s eyes bulged in surprise as he recognized what this meant, and, mouth hanging open, he looked desperately at Sirius, who grimaced and knocked his brother’s arm aside.

            “Put that away,” he said roughly.

            “You’re a Death Eater?” asked Harry disbelievingly.

            “I was,” answered Regulus shortly. “Before you were born. Only for about six months, mind.”

            “Did – did Voldemort teach you how to make Fiendfyre?”

            When Regulus winced at the name, Sirius rolled his eyes testily. “Not the Dark Lord himself, no,” Regulus said. “He does not personally oversee the training of his servants, Harry. In any case I betrayed him not long after I joined, and have been living in great and utter fear of his return for over a decade. But I’ve made it this far.” He gave a little smile, and winked at Harry. “So there’s reason to be optimistic.”

            With an odd, sly affection, Sirius nodded towards his brother and told Harry, “He’s a Gryffindor at heart.”

            “I am not,” said Regulus, a hint of exasperation entering his voice, as if this were a disagreement they had had many times. “Joining the Order was a matter of self-preservation, and not even fear could squash my ambition for-”

            Sirius gave his brother an almighty pat on the back and said solemnly, “Gryffindors, the both of us. Mother would be devastated,” and Regulus let out a very Percy-ish sigh of annoyance, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

            Remus, sitting across from them, kept his gaze focused anywhere but Regulus’s face. Harry could not pretend he did not see Regulus’s eyes flicker to the other man for one moment, and a bloom of something like distaste burst on Regulus’s face before he looked quickly away, ignoring Remus all night long.

\----

            “Character witnesses only go so far,” says Remus quietly. They are sitting at Regulus’s kitchen table, papers and photographs and testimony spread out all around them. “A dozen Muggles saw what happened-”

            “It’s not about that,” says Regulus stubbornly. “Crouch put him away without a trial. That’s not how things are done. Even the Lestranges-”

            “He betrayed them,” says Remus. “Regulus.”

            The boy’s eyes glint with fury as he demands, “Don’t you have any desire to hear what he has to say for himself?”

            The honest answer to this is yes, but Remus has stopped allowing himself to think so. He was there when the Ministry awarded Peter Pettigrew’s mother his Order of Merlin, First Class – and a box with a finger in it. Somehow, that sealed it for him. The Sirius Remus knew was perfectly capable of such destructive rage, when pushed. Although he longed to know what Voldemort had done to finally tip Sirius over the edge, it all now feels achingly, frighteningly possible.

            “No,” lies Remus. He is tired; the full moon is a few days away. “You’re young, Regulus,” he says. “You have your whole life ahead of you. A very bright future. Don’t throw it away for him.”

            “He’s my _brother_ -”

            “He’s a murderer,” says Remus calmly. “Sirius was smarter than anyone ever gave him credit for, we knew that. He was capable of planning this.”

            “He would never have killed them. He loved James more than he loved me, Remus. He would never – he could have been Imperiused, so many were-”

            “It’s over,” says Remus. He reaches out and touches Regulus’s cheek, turns his head to look Remus in the face. A cold shiver goes down Regulus’s spine when Remus’s fingers brush against his scar. “It’s over,” he says again. “They’re all dead. You have to think of it that way. James, and Lily, and Peter, and Sirius. All of them. They’re gone.”

            Regulus watches him. He is just a child; he is not yet twenty years old, and he has never looked it to Remus more than this moment, when Remus can so clearly see the shadow of Sirius’s face on his brother’s brow – the way Sirius looked as a teenager, as a student at Hogwarts, back when everything was simple and the world outside the school walls did not matter, could not touch them in their glory. The Sirius that Remus can see in the contours of Regulus’s face is innocent, is desperate, and something jolts sickeningly in Remus’s stomach, a feeling – a longing, a curiosity, if you must – which he will now, forever, never be able to satisfy.

            It does not surprise Remus when Regulus’s eyes well up with tears. “They won’t let me see him,” he whispers, his voice full of grief and horror.

            What does surprise Remus is what he does next.

\----

            “Well, of course they couldn’t expel him,” said Regulus matter-of-factly over after-dinner coffee. Harry and the rest of the children had already retreated upstairs in good spirits, celebrating the results of the hearing earlier that day. Sirius sat at the table with his brother, a glassy look in his eye. “The Ministry’s not got jurisdiction over Hogwarts, have they? And with good reason too, it’d be impossible to regulate the kind of experimental magic that goes on within those walls. Remember those curses everybody used, must’ve been about your fifth or sixth year? The terrible one that cut you up, what was the incantation-?”

            “Sectumsempra,” murmured Sirius.

            “That’s the one! Nasty, wasn’t it? Had to have been made up by some student, it’s not on any Ministry regulatory lists, but I imagine it’d be considered at least a Level Four illegal curse. Almost killed Helen Macnair, didn’t it?”

            “Forgive me if I don’t weep over her,” said Sirius. He was fingering a small spoon beside his cup, as if his fingers could not stay still. “Never liked the Macnairs. All three of them were horrible.”

            “I liked Helen,” said Regulus, with a shrug. “Did you know, she went to Greece on her Grand Tour and just decided to stay there? I still get Christmas cards from her.”

            Bitterly, Sirius asked, “Still friends with all your Slytherin cronies, are you?”

            Regulus’s expression immediately hardened. “They weren’t _cronies_ ,” he said. “And as a matter of fact, I am still in touch with a great many of them. Just as you would be with your all your Gryffindor friends, had…had things not worked out as they did.”

            Miserably, Sirius scowled down at his tea.

            Regulus watched his brother for a moment, then shook his head.

            “You don’t understand,” he said softly. “You’ve no idea what it was like to be a Slytherin back then, Sirius.”

            “I don’t?” asked Sirius sharply. “Even though I was constantly surrounded by them, every time I came home?”

            “You think we were all Death Eaters?” asked Regulus, with not a little hint of curiosity. “You think we all _wanted_ to be Death Eaters?”

            “You certainly did, didn’t you?”

            Livid, Regulus opened his mouth to reply. Then he stopped himself, closed his mouth, and looked down once more into his cappuccino.

            “You know,” he said, “after all these years, that I don’t blame you for what happened to our family. You know that. Yes?”

            Sirius didn’t reply. Regulus glanced at him; he finally gave a jerky little nod.

            “You should also know,” continued Regulus slowly, “that I was never as strong as you. Or as brave as you. I wanted to be the good son, so I did things I didn’t necessarily believe in. I made a number of foolish decisions – but I cannot hate myself for them, Sirius. Not the way you wish I did. Because I did good, too. Without me, the Order would be miles and miles behind where we are now.”

            Sirius let out a sigh, making it sound as if he was about to interrupt Regulus, but did not.

            “I was an exceptional case, though,” said Regulus, taking a sip of his cappuccino. “You have to understand what it was like, Sirius. To be surrounded on all sides by people who are certain you will support the Dark Lord, people who expect nothing else of you but to become a Death Eater yourself. And I don’t just mean our families and our Housemates,” added Regulus hastily. “Everyone saw Slytherin as a recruiting ground for Death Eaters. No one trusted us, no one wanted us, it’s no wonder we gravitated towards the Dark Lord and his supporters. They offered us acceptance. Trust. Family.”

            “ _I_ ,” said Sirius angrily, “was your family.”

            “No, you weren’t,” said Regulus simply. His tone was not unkind. “You dropped out of my life when you left home. My family loved me, supported me, and praised me when I did what they wanted. Is it so hard to believe that so many children, alienated from their peers, would join he who taught us to be proud of our heritage, that we deserved our place above those who had scorned us so? I have always thought Gryffindors judged us too quickly.”

            “Because _we_ fought,” said Sirius. There was a terrible sheen in his eyes, full of animal-like fury. “We fought and _died_ trying to stop you and your little _‘family’_ from murdering for sport.”

            Regulus watched Sirius for a moment, with such openness in his eyes that Sirius abruptly found himself regretting his harsh tone.

            The younger man leaned forward slightly, bowing his head in assent. “It’s true,” he said. “We did terrible things to Muggles, and to the Dark Lord’s enemies, many of whom were your friends. I never wanted to pretend I wasn’t guilty, Sirius, it was you who never wanted to hear it. Every day I have to live with the shame of what I did.” He paused, looked at his brother, then lowered his voice. “Do you know how you prove your loyalty to the Dark Lord?” he asked. “Do you know what earns you your Mark?”

            Sirius did not want to know. He felt sick in his stomach, but said nothing.

            “Murder,” said Regulus grimly.

            The sickness in Sirius’s gut turned hollow, and his chest suddenly felt very empty.

            “I will never forget it,” Regulus continued, his voice very quiet. “He was my age. Just a boy. And I didn’t…”

            He trailed off, as if it were too difficult to continue. Sirius said gruffly, “I don’t want to hear this.”

            “The point that I’m trying to make,” Regulus restarted, “is that it’s not easy to disobey years and years of conditioning and expectation. When I was in that cave, I didn’t want to come back; it seemed much easier to face death than – well – you.”

            This injured Sirius, as Regulus had intended it to.

            “Once you get in so deep,” he continued, “it’s almost impossible to get out. The terror. The loyalty. The absolute certainty that, no matter what you do or where you hide, if you betray him, he will find you.”

            “Didn’t find you,” muttered Sirius.

            “He would’ve,” answered Regulus. “But my betrayal came at an inconvenient time for the Dark Lord.”

            There was a short silence. Sirius suspected he knew what his brother would say next, and he did not want to hear it.

            Never one to have any regard for his brother’s feelings, Regulus soldiered on. “Now that he’s back…I expect my days are numbered, really.”

            He smiled weakly at Sirius.

            “Now buck up, will you? You’re bringing the mood of the whole house down. I know you liked the idea of Harry living life like a criminal here with you, but you have to know that’s very selfish.”

            Offended, Sirius began, “I never-”

            “Remus will be staying with you,” said Regulus, getting to his feet and going to the sink. “That should be enough.”

            Sirius watched his brother wash his small cup, then put it aside to dry. He did it all by hand; perhaps he did not wish to flaunt his magic in front of Sirius, who no longer possessed a wand. It had been snapped upon his sentencing to Azkaban years ago.

            Something else seemed to click in Sirius’s mind, and he got up and added, “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say Remus’s name since you got here. What’s going on with the two of you?”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Regulus said, taking his brother’s teacup.

            “As if you’re not doing it on purpose. You didn’t back Umbridge’s anti-werewolf legislation a few years ago, did you? Absolutely impossible for him to find work now.”

            “I didn’t,” said Regulus. “It’s nothing, Sirius. Being here just – well, I suppose it reminds me why you left. And he’s part of that.”

            Sirius said nothing. Regulus took his teacup, washed it, and then set it aside. “I’d better be off,” he said.

            “You aren’t staying the night?”

            “I’ve some work to do at home,” answered Regulus. “Don’t worry, my place is very close. You can owl me if you have a nightmare.”

            He grinned at Sirius, patted him on the shoulder, then swept out of the kitchen. The front door clicked shut behind him.

\----

            St. Peregrine’s Home for Elderly Wixen is an old-fashioned sort of place, an institution which sticks to the same old-fashioned sort of ways day after day. This is in part for the benefit of its patients, most of whom come from a different generation, a different life, and for some, a different century.

            Remus Lupin sits quietly in the tearoom, his eyes focused on his small teacup. He does not visit often, certainly not as often as he should. But he also doubts his father minds. He doubts his father notices at all.

            Lyall Lupin sips from a cup that has been enchanted to stay still and steady, even though his old hand shakes terribly. He smacks his lips and asks his son fondly, “How is Hogwarts these days? How are the boys? Getting along all right?”

            “They’re well,” says Remus quietly.

            “And old Dumbledore? How is he? Still as gracious as ever? Wonderful man, really… don’t know what we would’ve done without his help… schooled you at home, I expect, although you wouldn’t have liked that, wouldn’t have made all your friends, would you? Did you send Dumbledore my best, like I asked?”

            “I did,” says Remus. “He says hello, Dad.”

            Lyall beams at his son. “I’d like to write him but there aren’t any good owls around here, are there? Bit of a struggle to handle a quill right lately too, don’t know what’s gotten into me, once your mother gets back she’ll write it for me I expect.”

            “Yes, probably.”

            Both his shaking hands on the teacup, Lyall takes a sip of tea. “Why the long face, son?” he asks. His expression darkens and he asks, “No one’s found out, have they? Been keeping it a secret? How’s that Shack business, keeps you locked up well enough?”

            “I haven’t told anyone,” says Remus. “Don’t worry.”

            A teary shine wells up in Lyall’s eyes. He reaches out to pat his son’s shoulder, spilling tea down his front in the process. “That’s my boy,” he says. “That’s my good boy. See? Locked up one night a month, and you still have a full, free life, don’t you? It’s not so bad. Good boy, Remus. Very brave. A true Gryffindor.”

            He sniffs and wipes his eyes. Remus sets down his teacup to take hold of his father’s hand. All in all, he is only there for about twenty minutes or so before he steals away, guilt burning his insides, not all of it about his father.

            By nightfall he is back in London; by midnight he is laying thoughtfully in a bed that does not belong to him, sheets tangled around two bodies like a spider’s web. Curled up beside him, Regulus sleeps soundly, every exhale warm on Remus’s neck. His fingers move slightly in his sleep, as if he is wielding a wand.

            Remus stares at the ceiling and counts the days until the full moon. He is trying very hard to avoid a pattern, to make sure he spends more nights at his own home than Regulus’s so that the other man doesn’t notice the cycles of sallow skin, fresh wounds, and scars reopened. Regulus knows he is always exhausted – what little money Remus makes goes to his father’s care, and he is desperately searching every day for work – so the fatigue is something Regulus will write off, won’t suspect as unusual. But more and more lately Regulus has been hinting that Remus come to live with him, move in permanently. “I don’t know why you bother,” Regulus often sighs. “Most people have roommates, you know, and they split the costs. Rent is expensive, I know that.”

            In the darkness, Remus’s stomach feels ill and sour. He thinks of Regulus – beautiful, young, pureblood Regulus, last remaining member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black – and in his head he can plainly see the look of revulsion if he ever found out what Remus was. The disgust at having so loved a body as impure as Remus’s. The horror. The shame. The thought of it makes Remus feel sick. It is not the hiding so much that bothers Remus: Remus has hid his entire life, he does not truly remember a time when he has not had to hide. It is the deception that hurts him. The excuses. The way he keeps himself away from Regulus for at least three days after the full moon, unwilling to let him see the destruction the transformation wreaks on his body. Owl after owl of concern – once, after a particularly rough moon, when Remus had not seen Regulus for a week afterwards, Regulus sent his Patronus. A dog like his brother, except smaller, sleeker, more dignified. _Talk to me_ , it said in Regulus’s worried voice. _I love you._

            Unable to cast a Patronus through his tears in reply, the next day Remus showed up on Regulus’s doorstep, not caring if his injuries were obvious or not. Two nights he had stayed at Regulus’s flat. He’d wanted to stay forever.

            Beside him, Regulus shifts. Remus notices that his breath is quieter now, and his hand finds Remus’s. Remus glances down to see eyes half-open in the darkness.

            “What’s wrong?” whispers Regulus.

            The answer is rote, at this point. “Nothing.”

            Neither of them says anything else for a moment.

            And then Regulus pulls away from Remus, sitting up, bunching the sheets around his lap as he reaches for his wand to light up the room. No longer in darkness, Remus instinctively reaches to pull the sheets up across his chest, to hide the scars from Regulus. Regulus in turn reaches out and places a hand on Remus’s, stopping him.

            They look at each other in silence, Remus wary, Regulus unreadable.

            “Are you still upset about your father?” asks Regulus.

            Inwardly, Remus lets out a sigh of relief. “Yes,” he lies, grateful for the excuse. “I…feel guilty for not visiting him more. I don’t know how much longer he has.”

            Regulus puts aside his wand. “I know it’s difficult for you to visit him. If you’d like, I’ll come with you next time.”

            “No,” says Remus, almost too quickly. His visits to his father mostly consist of Lyall asking about his condition, ensuring that he is locked away safely on the full moon, and praising Dumbledore for his generosity. Remus could not explain that away, not even with senility. “I mean, thank you. That’s kind of you. But there’s no need. He’s my father.”

            Regulus scrutinizes Remus with an odd sort of look on his face, as if he weighing his next words carefully, tasting them before he speaks.

            “And I am your…boyfriend,” he says.

            It is a word they didn’t use often, because it sounds too much like schoolboy crushes and happier times. Slipping out of Regulus’s mouth like an incantation, it reminds Remus how young Regulus is, to have seen so much. In a way they are kindred spirits: all of Remus’s friends had always been confident, childish, and bursting with the arrogance of youth. To Remus’s knowledge Regulus had never been any of these things. He abandoned arrogance and ego at sixteen to join ranks with those far more powerful than he, and he left childishness behind him less than a year after that, when he betrayed the most dangerous wizard alive and risked everything to come back and tell the Order what he had done.

            In the lamplight, Remus can see all of Regulus’s scar, from his jaw down his neck and shoulder, the plastic-like skin in long strips shooting down his arm and chest. In a way, he can imagine the cursed flame licking across Regulus’s body, almost in tenderness, leaving a wound which would never completely heal, which Regulus claims does not hurt when Remus touches it, and yet every time he does, Regulus lets out a shuddery breath and shakes in Remus’s arms.

            Regulus moves abruptly, ducks his head to catch Remus’s gaze, which is half-focused on Regulus’s scarred shoulder. He looks expectant.

            “What?” asks Remus, reaching out to take Regulus’s hand; Regulus pulls away. “What’s the problem?”

            “Is _that_ the problem?” asks Regulus, and Remus isn’t sure what he means at first. “Am…I the problem?”

            Remus doesn’t understand and then, suddenly, he does.

            “Oh,” he says, feeling foolish now. “Regulus, no. Of course not. It has nothing to do with that, believe me.”

            Looking hurt, Regulus regards Remus warily. “And it’s not because you’re ashamed of _me_?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound mortally wounded, only as if he’s checking just to make sure. “Because your father knows what terrible things my family has done?”

            “ _No_ , of course not. Merlin, Regulus, did you think...” he trails off, then sits up as well. He reaches out and draws Regulus close to him, kisses him on the jaw just above the ragged edge of his scar. “My father knows about all that,” he murmurs. “Well, not about you personally, but – his mind’s going, he thinks I’m still at Hogwarts. Meeting you would only confuse him.”

            Regulus leans forward, hugging his body to Remus’s thin frame. They are both slim, but Regulus has the well-toned body of an athlete, whereas Remus is skinny, unhealthy, underfed. Kreacher is constantly offering him meat pies and cakes and pastries to take home when he leaves, and Remus accepts them maybe less often than he should. Against Remus’s bare chest, Regulus’s scar feels warm and strangely tingly, as if still smoldering.

            “Your father knows?” mumbles Regulus, mouth against his neck. Remus knows that Regulus regrets the secrets he kept from his own parents, regrets a family walled off from one another by the things they could not admit to one another. “That you…prefer men?”

            Regulus always tiptoes around it, as if he’s afraid to speak it into existence. Remus supposes with a family like his, one which so values bloodline and lineage and heirs, it is taboo to even think about. It no longer seems that way to Remus. It’s been a while now for him, and of all things he has had to hide in his life, this has not exactly been one of them.

            “Well,” says Remus, tugging Regulus back down to lie beside him. He trails a finger up and down Regulus’s scarred shoulder. Remus feels a tremor go through the other Regulus’s body and his eyes flutter closed, but he does not ask Remus to stop. “Not exclusively, you know. I dated girls at Hogwarts, remember?”

            “Yes,” says Regulus, “but I always thought they were, you know…in on it.”

            Remus glances down at Regulus, who gives a sheepish smile.

            “That’s what I did,” he admits.

            Unable to hold back a small laugh, Remus says, “No, I did quite like all of them. I got rather serious with Victoria Fortescue, in fact – I don’t know if you knew her, her uncle runs the ice cream shop in Diagon Alley? She ended it after we graduated. Didn’t want to join the Order, thought we should all keep our heads down and we’d get through it safe.”

            “She was pureblood?”

            Regulus used to ask this question of people all the time, and it used to annoy Remus endlessly. But this time, he does not mind: Regulus has picked up on exactly why Remus and Victoria Fortescue had not worked out. “Yes,” says Remus. “She was.”

            Regulus gives a firm little nod as if to say, _Serves her right_. Due to his previous prejudices, Regulus has a habit now of being especially hard on his fellow purebloods, hopelessly overcompensating for a childhood and adolescence obsessed with blood purity. Absently, still tracing Regulus’s scar, Remus continues, “Loads of people are bisexual nowadays, Regulus. It’s not so uncommon. Now that I think about it, I haven’t heard from Victoria in years… I hope she’s doing all right… Sirius introduced me to her, she was a Ravenclaw, I think he thought I was practically a Ravenclaw myself, so naturally-”

            It is only then Remus registers that Regulus’s grip has gone very tight, and after a moment of dull bewilderment, he realizes exactly what he has just said, the name which has just crossed his lips.

            He falls instantly, wretchedly silent.

            “Regulus,” he begins heavily, but Regulus only turns his head and presses his lips against Remus’s collarbone.

            Then he asks, “If you took me to see your father…would he think I was Sirius?”

            Remus knows what Regulus is really asking.

            “No,” he answers, but the word feels leaden on his tongue.

\----

            “Sirius,” said Remus.

            Sirius glanced around; he was tending to Buckbeak, who, much like himself, got restless cooped up inside for so long. Remus had poked his head around the door.

            “Regulus just arrived,” he said, nodding downstairs. “He’d like to speak with you.”

            After a moment’s consideration, Sirius said, “I’m busy. Tell him to come up here.”

            “Sirius,” said Remus again, and something in his voice made the other man look around. Remus looked tired, but smiled gently when Sirius met his gaze. “Come have a drink with us.”

            A few minutes later, he was trudging down the last flight of stairs to the kitchen cellar, Remus in tow. Remus had moved into Grimmauld Place some time ago, and now, during the school months, he and Regulus were the only ones who regularly provided Sirius with any company – but Sirius had found that Regulus tended to visit when Remus was out on business, or whenever he appeared otherwise, Remus would retreat to his room, claiming he was too caught up in something or other to share a drink with both brothers. They were, undeniably, avoiding one another, and Sirius was mystified as to the reason why. He therefore could not possibly pass up an opportunity to keep them both in an enclosed space together alone, if only for a little while, to figure out what was going on.

            Regulus was already waiting in the kitchen, his cloak discarded carelessly on the wooden table. He glanced up when Sirius and Remus entered. “What’ll it be?” he asked, rummaging through a cabinet. “Firewhisky for you, Sirius?”

            “Thanks,” Sirius said, taking a seat.

            “Same for me, Regulus,” said Remus appreciatively.

            Two tumblers half-full of firewhisky levitated across the kitchen into Sirius and Remus’s hands. A bottle followed them, alighting gently on the table. A moment later, Regulus took a seat, a glass of clearish green liquid in hand.

            “Not having one?” asked Sirius with his eyebrow raised, taking a sip of the firewhisky.

            “No,” answered Regulus, “thank you. I don’t drink.”

            Sirius let out a bark of laughter. “Listen to this one, Remus,” he said, nudging his friend. “Used to be a Death Eater, and now he’s so clean he won’t even have a drink among friends.”

            Remus said nothing, but his eyes were fastened on Regulus as he raised his own glass to his lips.

            Sirius glanced between the two other men, and a creeping suspicion blossomed in his chest. “What’s this about?” he asked, something jumping rather nervously in his gut. “Please don’t say you’re here to tell me something horrible.”

            “No,” said Regulus, shaking his head. “No, no, it’s not that at all, Sirius, it’s just…” he trailed off, then turned to his cloak. He pulled a long parcel out of one of the pockets, then held it in his hands.

            “I was in Diagon Alley a while ago, and I – well, I was thinking of you, and how trapped you must feel, stuck right back here again, and, see, Remus and I have been talking, and-”

            In astonishment, Sirius looked around at Remus. “ _You’ve_ been talking to him?” he asked. “Behind my back, is that it?”

            He was clearly ribbing Remus, a happy grin on his face because he knew exactly what that parcel in Regulus’s hands was, but if he had been paying more attention he might’ve noticed the slight flush of color that rose to Remus’s face as his eyes glanced away, unable to keep his eyes on Regulus.

            Regulus paused nervously, then held out the long, thin package. “Do you remember how, when we got our wands, Dad insisted each of us only try dragon heartstring?”

            “Like the rest of the family,” nodded Sirius, taking the box eagerly, “yes.”

            “Well, I spoke to Ollivander about what he might have chosen for – for either of us, not just you, didn’t want to look suspicious, you know – if he hadn’t been restricted to dragon heartstring cores, and, well…”

            Sirius opened the box with relish, stared at the wand for one moment, and then his face fell starkly.

            He looked up at Regulus, holding the box up towards him.

            “This is your wand,” he said.

            “Yes,” answered Regulus nervously. “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Ollivander said your core would’ve been dragon heartstring anyway, and when I asked what kind, he told me… well, mine,” he finished meekly.

            Sirius stared at him, then down at the stick of wood.

            “Your wand?” he asked, looking up again. “He said he would’ve given me your wand?”

            “They’ve twin cores,” said Regulus, as if in explanation. “From the same Hebridean Black. Mine’s a quarter-inch shorter than yours was, and Hazel, not Beech, but it should work just as well.”

            A frown dug into his brow, Sirius began, “Just to be clear – you’re giving me your wand?”

            Regulus nodded, looking almost frightened; it was clear he expected Sirius to be, at the very least, offended. Wordlessly, Remus’s gaze flickered between the two men.

            Sirius pressed, “And what about you? Don’t tell me you’re giving up magic and going Muggle on us now, are you?”

            With a hollow laugh, Regulus shook his head. “No,” he said; from his cloak he pulled a different wand, rather richer in color and noticeably thinner than its predecessor. “Ollivander said he would’ve given _me_ a different core, had our father allowed. This one’s ten and three-quarter inches long, same as my last one, but it’s made of Cherry, and the core is a unicorn tail hair.”

            Sirius stared at his brother for a long moment, and then his lips drew back in a wide, hearty grin. “You’re serious?” he asked, as if he still dare not believe it. “You’ve got me a new wand?”

            “Well, it’s not exactly new,” said Regulus fretfully. “But I’ve kept it in as best condition as-”

            Sirius picked up the wand and flicked it wickedly; Regulus’s glass of gillywater went flying as he let out a shout, hoisted up into the air by his ankle. Sirius roared with laughter and even Remus could not suppress a smile as he reached out and said, “Oh, come on, Sirius, don’t be childish-”

            A moment later, Regulus was back right-side up, his face beet red. Sirius was still chortling with laughter. “Sorry,” he said, wheezing for breath. “I really am sorry, Regulus, I couldn’t resist – it’s been so long since I’ve had a wand of my own-”

            “That’s quite all right,” said Regulus, taking gulps of air to combat the dizziness. “I completely understand.”

            “Thank you,” said Sirius, reaching out to grip his brother’s shoulder; he did not wince as Sirius touched his scar, even beneath his robes, but Remus spotted a bolt of discomfort shoot through his expression. “Really, Regulus – I’d thought about ordering one, but it’s such an individualized process, isn’t it, I didn’t know if… thank you.”

            “Thank Remus,” said Regulus, nodding at the other man. “It was his idea.”

            Without missing a beat, Sirius turned to his friend and enveloped him in a tight, long hug. Remus was caught by surprise; his hand hovered awkwardly for a moment, then he patted Sirius’s back, returning the embrace.

            Regulus pointedly avoided Remus’s gaze.

            When the two friends finally pulled apart, Sirius could hardly look away from his wand – his brother’s wand, which was in fact in excellent condition for the length of time it had been in use. He waved it about a bit, cleaned up Regulus’s spilled gillywater and conjured him another one, then refilled his own glass of firewhisky. The wand performed flawlessly.

            “So,” said Sirius, eyes still fixed on the wand itself. “Is this why you two’ve been so scarce lately? Didn’t want to give away the game?”

            “Yes,” said Remus smoothly. “Regulus wanted to tell you badly. He never was so good at keeping secrets, you know.”

            This was a lie; Regulus kept many secrets, a number of which belonged to Remus. But he said nothing.

            Perhaps out of an indignant sense of retaliation, Regulus asked Remus lightly, “How is it living here in my family’s house, Remus? Which room are you sleeping in?”

            “The guest room,” replied Remus coolly. “On the third floor.”

            “Oh?” asked Regulus innocently, glancing between Remus and Sirius, who was hardly listening to the conversation at all. “There was a banshee that lived under that bed for a while when I was sixteen, is she still there?”

            “No, I don’t believe she is.”

            “Still, it’s a small room,” continued Regulus thoughtfully. His expression brightened as if a thought had only just occurred to him. “Why don’t you sleep in my bedroom?” he asked. “It’s up at the very top, right by Sirius’s. Sirius,” he said, and his brother glanced up, “you use your old bedroom, don’t you?”

            “Of course,” answered Sirius. “It’s the only room in the house with remotely tolerable décor.”

            “ _Tolerable_ is certainly the word I would use,” said Regulus, a judgmental little grimace on his face. “Feel free to redecorate the walls in my room, Remus – they’re a relic from another lifetime, at this point.”

            “That’s all right, Regulus,” said Remus. “I’m fine with the room I have.”

            “Oh, don’t be silly,” said Regulus, waving away Remus’s protest. “Come Christmas we’ll need all the space we can get anyway, I expect, so it’s a waste of perfectly good room if you don’t use it. Besides, it’s one of the biggest bedrooms in the house.”

            “I don’t need a lot of space,” said Remus.

            “He makes a good point, Moony,” said Sirius to Remus, nodding towards his brother. “And the room does need some redecorating, it’s a bloody Slytherin nightmare in there. We’ll clean it up. It’ll be a bit of fun.”

            Remus was staring directly at Regulus, who did not move, only smiled at him sweetly.

            Finally, Remus relented.

            “Fine,” he said quietly, looking around at Sirius. “What did you have in mind?”

            Sirius began to expound upon his ideas for covering up the pureblood Slytherin pride in which Regulus’s old room was drenched, and Regulus sat there watching the two other men, a wry smile on his face.

\----

            It has been a long time coming, is what Remus tells himself, over and over again.

            It starts, of all things, with a promotion.

            “I’m not sure Magical Law Enforcement is where I really want to be,” says Regulus, over a sticky toffee pudding they were sharing at his kitchen table. Regulus has sent Kreacher away to Grimmauld Place, as he sometimes does when he wants some time alone with Remus, and Kreacher so loves taking orders from the mad portrait of Walburga that he leaves obediently, if not eagerly. “International Wizarding Law, now there’s something I’m interested in. I suppose it’s the natural next step, as long as I don’t dig my heels in too far I should be able to get there in a few years.”

            Remus pokes at the pudding with his fork. “Congratulations,” he says.

            “Thank you,” answers Regulus. He is glowing with pride, chest thrown out confidently, beaming happily down at their dessert. “Listen, Remus, I’ve been thinking and – don’t you think you ought to move in with me, finally? I know your father’s death has hit you awfully hard, and I really think it’s best if you’re not alone right now.” Remus does not immediately respond. Hopefully, Regulus adds, “Maybe…just a trial run?”

            Before the words are even fully out of Regulus’s mouth, Remus says shortly, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

            Regulus’s face falls. “Remus,” he says. “How long have we been dancing around this? What can I say to get you to at least consider the possibility?”

            “It’s just – not the right time.”

            “The right time will never come unless we make it, Remus! Look at me, I’ve got a good job now, I’m the sole inheritor of my entire family’s wealth, and I live alone with the house-elf in this great big empty home. I’m lonely,” he says plainly. “I want you here. With me.”

            “No,” says Remus. He places his fork down on the plate beside the half-finished pudding. He is not hungry. It is the full moon in a few days, and he has lost his appetite.

            “What’s the problem?” asks Regulus. They have had this argument before, and he is growing impatient. He has never understood the distance Remus so carefully cultivates between them. “I know it’s very difficult, losing your family – I _know_ , Remus, look at me – but you mustn't shut everyone out because you’re in a dark place. You mustn't shut _me_ out.”

            Remus does not answer for some time.

            And then, quietly, he begins, “You have a very successful career ahead of you, Regulus. I know you’ll be…very happy.”

            Slowly, it dawns on Regulus what is happening. The pride, happiness, even the anger all melts away into a low, burning horror.

            “Remus,” he says, but Remus does not stop.

            “I wouldn’t want to – endanger – your chances at a-”

            “Oh, _please_ ,” says Regulus, horror twisting quickly into venom, an instinctive defense he learned as a child, from his parents and his brother. “The war is over, Remus, it isn’t anyone’s business if I’m in love with a half-blood-”

            “That is not,” says Remus sharply, his eyes flashing with what could possibly be anger, “what I mean.”

            Loudly, Regulus retorts, “Well, no one knows you’re a werewolf, do they? So what does that matter?”

            This time, Remus is stunned into silence.

            Immediately a pink blush rises to Regulus’s cheeks; he obviously has not meant to tip his hand so early. He bites his lip, then stops, and straightens up. With an uncharacteristically rebellious look in his eye, he looks at Remus, waiting.

            Remus is trying to form words, but his lips feel numb. “How – how long have you…”

            This, Regulus also does not want to admit. After a second’s hesitation, however, he spits it out. “Sirius told me. When he ran away.”

            Remus stares at him. It feels like his insides are made of frozen water, sloshing around as if in a cauldron, sending freezing sprays across his lungs, his spine, up into his throat. For a second, it feels like he cannot breathe.

            Slowly, he asks, “You’ve known what I am…since you were thirteen?”

            Defiantly, Regulus nods.

            There is a rushing silence between them.

            Regulus reaches out to take Remus’s hand. “I don’t care,” he says. “I mean, I did at first, you know me, you know my family, but after I joined the Order Sirius talked to me a few times and set me straight, and now it’s – now it doesn’t matter to me, what does matter is that this secret – it’s tearing you apart – you’re hurting yourself-”

            Remus whips his hand away as if he has been burned. “I could hurt _you_ ,” he moans. It is not a threat: it is a warning, a deathly fear, a Boggart strong enough to replace the moon. “It is not – safe – nor is it even sane, Regulus, you would never – you don’t know what it’s like, if anyone found out you would be a pariah, and I can’t – I cannot let that happen to you-”

            “My brother is a mass murderer!” says Regulus shrilly. “If my relation to Sirius Black doesn’t already make me a pariah, then how could-”

            “ _Stop saying his name!_ ”

            It hits Regulus like a slap to the face. He falls silent. With the hand that had been holding Remus’s only just a moment ago, he massages his left shoulder, rubbing the scar tissue at the crook of his neck. As he does so, he winces ever so slightly. It is an unconscious habit that Remus fears he has unintentionally taught him: when they are together, he touches the scar delicately, runs his fingers along it up and down over and over again until the shuddering stops, until Regulus falls asleep to that touch, no pain on his brow. Remus does not know exactly why he first began to do it; maybe that stiffening shiver every time he touched the wrong place frightened him, and he wanted to make it go away, wanted to make Regulus calm and comfortable in his arms. He wanted to make him feel safe, which is a lie – Regulus is not safe with him, and now he is constantly touching that scar, intentionally shouldering the pain

            Guilt rises as thick and stifling as grief, and, bizarrely, Remus wants to burst into tears. He wants to reach out and take Regulus’s hand away from the scar, but he does not think he can bear to touch him. Remus swallows the urge to cry, which coalesces into a thick blockage in his throat, making it impossible to speak. Regulus, on the other hand, has never been shy about crying. This is one thing he does not have in common with Sirius.

            Sirius. Again, there is an odd prickling in Remus’s eyes which he refuses to acknowledge. Sirius is always there, shadowed in Regulus’s face, behind Remus’s eyes, in every morning when Remus wakes up to see jet black hair and a strong, broad back asleep beside him – and then he sees the great glistening scar, and a surge of sickening guilt overwhelms him. For two years he has let this continue with Regulus, he has ignored the low haze of guilt which surrounds him like miasma, but it is no longer possible to bear. Regulus is in love with him, and this terrifies him, because Remus does not know if he loves Regulus, or if he loves the specter of Regulus’s brother always there, always present, always just slightly out of reach.

            He cannot say this out loud. He knows it will destroy Regulus.

            Pathetically, he glances up.

            To his surprise, the look on Regulus’s face is not one of anguish or despair. On the contrary, his jaw is set rather grimly. He looks almost as if he has been expecting this.

            Neither of them speaks for some time.

            Then, in an awfully transparent, horrible voice that does not belong to him, Regulus says lightly, “I won’t say it if you don’t, all right, Moony?”

            “Don’t call me that,” snaps Remus.

            Regulus watches him.

            “What do you want from me?” Regulus asks.

            Remus can’t answer that question, because what he wants Regulus cannot give him, and Remus has been unfairly asking for it for too long now.

            “Listen,” he says, his voice quiet. “I…can’t do this to you.”

            “I don’t mind,” Regulus says, immediately.

            But Remus ignores this. “It isn’t fair to you,” he says. “Like I said. You have your whole life ahead of you, a bright future, a successful career. Don’t throw it away because of me.”

            “I wouldn’t be _throwing_ _it_ – Remus.” He sounds suddenly angry. His exposed skin is flushed red, except for what Remus can see of his scar, which is still a ghostly white, pale and shiny. “Why,” he demands, “is it so hard for you to let somebody love you?”

            Remus has a few answers, some of which are witty and cynical, some of which would hurt Regulus, and none of which are honest. So he does not answer at all.

            As the silence stretches on, the color in Regulus’s face slowly begins to drain away. Remus can only stare numbly at the unfinished pudding between them, each new second bringing the vague hope that Regulus will end this agony for him, will cut his suffering short.

            Regulus says nothing. After a few minutes, he gets to his feet. Remus doesn’t look up, but wonders vaguely where he’s going to go; this is his home, after all. Would he try to physically remove Remus from the place? No, that’s so much more of a Sirius move, Regulus would never-

            As if Regulus could hear his thoughts, he turns and leaves the kitchen. Remus hears him go down the hall and into his own bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

            For one beautiful moment, Remus raises his head and is filled with a burning, miraculous desire to follow Regulus, to breathe apologies between kisses, to touch his scarred skin and hear him gasp with, not pain, but pleasure…

            If he were a true Gryffindor, he would be brave, and he would not leave; were he a Slytherin, like Regulus, then he would not allow this dishonesty to prevent him from getting what he wanted, and what he wanted at that moment more than anything was behind Regulus’s door. But he is neither brave nor self-preserving. He supposes that Hogwarts Houses don’t matter, not in the real world, not like everyone always thought they did.

            He cleans up before he goes, because Kreacher is not home to do it. Setting the dish back inside the cupboard and the cutlery in a drawer, he stands at the sink listlessly for a moment.

            And then he leaves, the waxing moon hanging low in the sky.

\----

            On the tenth of March, Sirius and Remus ate a late breakfast together, Sirius gave him a full set of new robes as a gift (robes that were, Remus was amused to see, undoubtedly picked out especially by Sirius, as they had his characteristic flashiness), and then Sirius invited him upstairs to groom to Buckbeak, who looked especially ragged lately, sick of being stuck inside. To combat this, Sirius had bewitched his mother’s old bedroom into appearing as a small clearing in the forest, and the ceiling reflected the open, endless blue sky outside, where dusk was falling. Buckbeak stretched out appreciatively. Although he could not stretch his wings and fly, the enchantment at least gave him some semblance of freedom. Remus imagined it did the same for Sirius.

            They talked for some time, about each other, about old school memories, and about Harry – Sirius could never stop asking questions about Harry, questions that Remus often could not answer. these Remus told him he should just ask the boy directly. But Remus suspected that Sirius wanted to be the cool, reserved godfather who didn’t smother Harry with his desperate hunger to know every detail about his life. So Remus humored him, answering his questions patiently and as accurately as he could.

            After a while, Sirius got to his feet abruptly and said, “Well, I think that’s enough for now, don’t you?” and headed out of the room.

            Curious, Remus followed him. It wasn’t until they reached the kitchen cellar that Remus realized what was happening, and by then it was too late.

            As soon as the door swung open, the deafening sounds of magical poppers filled the room and a group of people cried – some more enthusiastically than others – “ _Happy birthday!_ ”

            Unable to suppress a grin, Remus immediately swung around to look once more at Sirius, who beamed back at him broadly. “Been a bit quiet lately,” he said, passing Remus a sparkler. “Thought I’d organize something. Just a small get-together, really.”

            “Small?” asked Remus, one eyebrow raised; the entire Order, barring those otherwise engaged at Hogwarts, was stuffed into the kitchen, grinning and laughing and all-around catching up with one another. On the table was a very large rectangular cake with red frosting and silver lettering that spelled in neat, familiar handwriting, _HAPPY BIRTHDAY REMUS_. Sure enough, Sirius reached out and seized his brother straight out of a lively conversation with Bill Weasley.

            Smacking Regulus proudly on the chest – Regulus gave an embarrassed sort of smile – Sirius said, “Couldn’t have done it without Regulus here, he’s always been better than me at planning these things. Argued a bit about the cake, he wanted it green – he’s upset that we painted over all those banners in his room, aren’t you, Regulus?”

            Ignoring his brother, he said sincerely, “Happy birthday, Remus. I’m happy we could all be here to celebrate it.”

            “Thank you, Regulus,” Remus replied. Despite himself, he could not shake the faint sense of awkwardness, the stiff way he spoke to the younger man.

            Regulus turned as if to speak to his brother, but Sirius was already distracted; he slipped away, delightedly calling, “Dung! What’s that you’ve got there?”

            A few others passed by and wished Remus a happy birthday, including an already very drunk Dedalus Diggle, who shoved a bottle of butterbeer into Remus’s hand. Mostly, though, everyone was already caught up in conversation, leaving Regulus and Remus in an awkward sort of silence.

            Regulus said nothing, his eyes scanning over the party. This was fair, Remus thought. Even though it had been years, Remus could imagine that it still stung. Some part of him wondered if Regulus had ever gotten over it, or if he had lapsed into a self-imposed celibacy of sorts, pining after Remus.

            It was a very selfish thought, and as soon as it occurred to Remus, he banished it from his mind, shocked at himself. Perhaps it was because he felt even more guilty for entertaining such a thought, even for just a moment, that Remus finally forced himself to speak.

            He cleared his throat.

            “Regulus,” he said.

            The younger man glanced at him. “Yes?”

            “I…”

            His mouth dried up. His mind went blank. He went back to intently studying the conversation between Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Nymphadora Tonks, as if he could hear them across the room.

            “Remus,” said Regulus.

            Reluctantly, Remus looked at him.

            To his utter disbelief, there was a small smile tugging at Regulus’s lips.

            “This is getting ridiculous,” he said. “Shall we act like adults about this, finally?”

            Something churned in Remus’s stomach. “We were adults back then too, and we still didn’t handle it so well.”

            “I don’t know about you,” answered Regulus pointedly, “but I was still a teenager the first time you kissed me, technically.”

            Remus’s heart skipped a beat; wildly, he glanced around to check if anyone was listening in on them, but if anyone had overheard, they didn’t seem to care.

            Regulus actually laughed. “Oh, don’t look so terrified,” he said charmingly. “You’ll ruin the mood.”

            But he said no more. The laugh seemed like a taunt, and the thought of hanging onto bitterness after all these years hit Remus with an intense surge of angry guilt, and with a rush of adrenaline like chemical courage, Remus muttered, “You’re the one who won’t speak to me, except to keep up appearances in front of your brother.”

            Regulus shrugged.

            “I would have thought,” began Remus carefully, “the anger – after all these years – that you might have…softened. To my…situation…”

            Regulus let out a disbelieving little noise. Coolly, he asked, “Do you honestly think me so petty that I’d hold onto the grudge of a broken heart all these years, Remus?”

            For some reason, this cut Remus deeply. “Maybe,” he answers, defiantly. “Why does it seem you think me so deplorable, if you’re not still furious with me?”

            The sounds of a party rumbled on, deepening the silence between them. Regulus eyed him for a moment, then let out a small sigh.

            “I am angry at you,” he admitted.

            Remus thought so. He looked away, feeling once more the roiling sense of shame rise in his gut. “I’m…”

            “But not about that,” Regulus added.

            Remus blinked.

            Before he continued, Regulus took a sip of his gillywater.

            “When did you find out about Sirius?” asked Regulus. He seemed altogether indifferent about the question, peering coolly across the room. “That he was innocent, I mean.”

            “Two years ago,” answered Remus, “In June. At Hogwarts.”

            Regulus nodded. Without looking back at Remus, he asked simply, “And you chose not to tell me…why?”

            Remus stared at Regulus.

            Finally, Regulus glanced back at him. “After all we did for him,” he continued, lowering his voice. “After all I – _I_ , not you – believed in him…you decided to wait and let Kingsley Shacklebolt tell me?” His eyes, now focused on Remus, burned with bitterness. “ _Kingsley Shacklebolt?_ Remus, you should’ve come straight to my office the second the suspicion crossed your mind.”

            He watched Remus with a fiery, reproachful gaze. Everything about that gaze was so distinctly _Regulus_ , so unlike his brother, who still had not shaken the haunted, hollow shadow of Azkaban from his eyes.

            “Why didn’t you come to me?” asked Regulus.

            At first, Remus could think of no answer to this question. An answer seemed impossible, because nothing really made sense, nothing would be good enough for Regulus. Nothing could excuse Remus. He had known, even as he was reunited with Sirius in the Shrieking Shack, that he would have to tell Regulus, that the boy – still, even after so long, Remus still thought of him as a boy – would be ecstatic. But then, as he had tendered his resignation and packed his things in that Hogwarts office, the shame and the fear had come back, and he found excuse after excuse to put it off until suddenly it was done, and Remus had not been the one to do it.

            This time, Remus did have an honest answer to give.

            “Because I’m a coward,” he said simply. “I don’t think this is news to you, Regulus.”

            “I don’t know,” sighed Regulus. “It would be easy to say so, I think. It would give you an easy way out, and I have no desire to do that. Cowardice is an excuse, Remus, not an explanation.”

            There was a silence between them.

            “It’s been over a decade, Remus,” said Regulus, abruptly. Remus glanced around to see he had one eyebrow raised. The lamplight cast an odd, yellowish sheen across his scar. “Did you really think I was still upset with you?”

            The answer to this was yes. Remus, of course, had carried with him a low sense of omnipresent guilt for years now. Although now that Regulus brought it up, Remus began to suspect that this guilt had less to do with how he had treated Regulus, and more to do with Remus himself.

            “In any case,” said Regulus, giving a very handsome, very arrogant little shake of his head. “I really do hope you’ve grown out of your cowardice, Remus.” His eyes slid through the crowd gathered in the small room, and Remus followed his gaze. “For her sake.”

            Across the room, a young woman whose bright-colored hair, spiked aggressively at her temples, was a cheerful shade of turquoise this evening. Nymphadora Tonks locked eyes with Remus and grinned at him. She winked.

            Alarmed and bewildered, Remus turned around once more, but Regulus had disappeared. Sirius, exiting his lively conversation with Mundungus Fletcher with a wicked grin on his face, slunk back to Remus’s side. He flung an arm around his friend’s shoulders and leaned in conspiratorially.

            “So,” he said mischievously, with narrowed eyes. He jerked his head over to where Tonks was in conversation with her fellow Aurors; she kept shooting furtive glances across the room at Remus. “You and little Dora, is that it? She’s a riot, your absolute polar opposite, but I’m sure you two can make it work.”

            “What?” asked Remus, in disbelief. “Sirius – she’s half my age!”

            “Oh, she is not,” replied Sirius, shaking his head. “Besides, you’ve got a bit of a thing for younger lovers anyway, haven’t you?”

            With a very Sirius-like giggle, the scent of firewhisky already on his breath, he darted forward and planted a very sloppy peck on Remus’s cheek. Then, letting go of Remus, he brandished his new wand, sent a large knife soaring above their heads, and roared, “Who wants cake!”

            In astonishment, Remus touched his face, then looked around to see Tonks grinning at him – then looked around once more, his gaze finally settling on Regulus Black, hanging back behind the others enthusiastically crowding around the cake. Remus gave him a weak sort of smile.

            Grinning at him, Regulus winked back.


End file.
